


Friend Request

by rumpleghost (softlyforgotten)



Category: Weekend (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:26:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyforgotten/pseuds/rumpleghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russell in the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friend Request

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PJVilar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PJVilar/gifts).



> Dear recipient, it was a pleasure to write for your lovely prompt in this lovely fandom. I'm sorry that despite how much I've rambled in this, I didn't manage to fit a roadtrip in - hopefully you like it well enough anyway. Happy holidays! <3
> 
> Warning for some homophobic language in this, sometimes used by a queer character, sometimes by (asshole) straight characters.
> 
> Finally: my apologies for the worst plot device ever.

After everything, they were Facebook friends. 

Glen didn't add him right away, but it was soon enough after; Russell thought probably Glen did it the day he arrived in America, and he wasn't sure how to think or what to make of that. There was no message, just the friend request, and Russell only noticed in the first place because Jamie texted him asking him to reply to some party invite. Russell wasn't very good at Facebook.

He spent time on it after that, though, a little helpless, clicking through all the photos Glen had been tagged in. A lot of them were at bars, or parties, and Glen was usually attached to someone; an arm around someone's neck, dragging them in close, making an open-mouthed half-excited half-aggressive face at the camera. Russell made odd faces himself when he was looking at the photos, found himself twitching his lips and pouting in strange ways like he'd forgotten how his mouth worked.

Russell's profile picture, though, was a piece of art. Glen wondered if it was something Russell had done or not; it was a mural, and while he thought there were non-abstract details the photo wasn't good enough for him to pick out anything amongst the riot of colour. He hadn't gotten the impression that Glen was a painter, but he'd been in Glen's company for barely forty-eight hours – he had to keep reminding himself that he didn't know much about Glen at all. Feeling like he did was just a way to keep pushing at the bruise.

Glen's number of friends went up sharply in the next week and a half. He'd already been on close to six hundred, but it climbed impossibly. Russell thought that, even in the rush of new people at any orientation event, there was no way that Glen could possibly have met all of them – but he was tagged in new photos with them, too, a whole new range of tagged photos that involved Glen looking angry and happy at parties.

Russell sat cross-legged peering at the screen. He set the laptop on the coffee table and then hunched a little, curling over it but distant. He had to reach out to tap onto the next photo. He smoked a bowl and thought about the people Glen was meeting. He tried to work out whether Glen liked them or not based on the photos. He tried to imagine them talking, but Russell couldn't do the American accent, not even in his head, not even with the amount of American TV there was and all. He could only hear Glen's voice, those clipped, quick vowels.

Sometimes when he was online he saw the little green dot next to Glen's name, and thought about saying hi, but he wasn't sure how. He found it hard enough to talk to Glen in person – the idea of writing to him seemed impossible.

He'd said everything he'd needed to say at the train station, anyway. Things had been sorted out nicely, and finished, and he'd had the tape and all. He'd thought they had closure, of a sort.

The Facebook thing was just a little strange, that was all. It wasn't anything new, though. Just the aftertaste.

\---

Jamie asked, once. He said, "Do you ever talk to that fella of yours?"

"Mm," Russell said. He took another drag of the joint. "Not really, no."

"Why not?"

"Wasn't that kind of thing."

"But you went after him at the train station and all, didn't that turn it into that kind of thing?"

"No," Russell said. "It was…" He paused. "It was lovely. He was lovely. But he had to move to America, I couldn't stop him from doing that."

"Right, no," Jamie said. "I guess not. Sad though, isn't it?"

"It's not too sad," Russell said. 

He didn't tell Jamie any of Glen's stuff about relationships. There was no need to tell him about Glen spitting out very clearly that he didn't _want_ to be anyone's _boyfriend_ and how Russell had been high and unsympathetic and belligerent, and quite possibly right, as well, only he didn't like to think about that. 

It wasn't that he wanted to keep it secret, or trick Jamie into thinking that if only Glen had stayed he and Russell would be – would be on their way to getting married or something ridiculous, it was just that it didn't matter, and really thinking about it as often as he did showed how much investment Russell had put in terrible places anyway. 

Sometimes Jamie accused Russell of being too secretive, about everything, but Russell was just cautious; he didn't want to upset people, and being peaceable was something that had always done him well by.

Jamie asked, once, if Russell wanted to go to therapy. 

"I do," he'd said. "Cathy suggested it and at first I wasn't sure, but it's nice, going and telling someone about it when their job is just to listen. We were lonely a lot, you know, I think sometimes I've forgotten how not to be lonely, and I – it helped, anyway."

Russell had turned him down as gracefully as he knew how. He wasn't sure what he would say to someone. 

Secretly, too, he liked being lonely on occasion. It added an extra level of consciousness to everything; he walked through his flat and felt the carpet prickle under his bare feet, or the way he picked up a mug and made coffee seemed significant. He liked the small sounds of living on his own, and the sounds that came from the next door neighbours, too; he liked sitting quiet in his flat and listening to the people around him fuck and scream and cry at each other. Sometimes people were awful, obviously, but mostly Russell liked having a little bubble of space that was all his.

Glen had been very loud when he came, much louder than Russell, and he'd laughed afterward like it was hilarious, what they'd just done. He'd pressed his face against Russell's shoulder and laughed for ages, and the first night Russell had been too drunk and the second too happy to care.

\---

At the pool, his manager pulled him aside after his shift and said, "Got a mo, Russell?"

Russell followed him into the little glass cubicle that was his office and hovered uncertainly. In here the squeak of feet on floor and splashing from the pool was dulled so much as to be almost unnoticeable. 

"How's it going then?" his manager asked.

"Good," Russell said. "It's – yeah, it's good. Very good, thank you."

"That's good," his manager said. "Look, you've been here for a few years now, and you've done a good job, you know – you're punctual, you're nice and quiet, you don't mess around on your breaks like some of the lads. It's very nice."

"Oh," Russell said, wondering if he was being fired. "Thank you."

His manager rubbed his glasses against his grimy t-shirt, and then put them back on again. He looked tired. "Now, my wife's having a baby, as it happens. She's not that far away now, bout another six weeks to go, and I'm going to be looking to take a bit of time off work, or at least a few less days a week for a while. So Craig's going to be coming in and taking over a lot of my duties, but he owns three of these pools, you know, he's a busy man. I'm thinking about training you up to do a lot of the admin stuff and then you can take over a bit for me. It'd mean a bit of a pay rise and a few extra hours. Would you be all right with that?"

Russell blinked and stared a little. "Um, yes," he said, after a moment. He wasn't sure how he felt, really, but a bit of extra money would be nice. "That's very kind of you. Thank you."

"I'm glad you like the idea," his manager said. "I'm very thankful too, you know, Russell, it's good to have a bloke like you around."

"Congratulations," Russell said, belated. "About – about the baby."

His manager beamed. "Thank you," he said, and got out his phone, pulling up a photo and holding it over to Russell. "That's my wife."

Russell nodded, looking at her. She was a heavily pregnant blonde woman, with a nice smile. "She looks lovely. Very – very happy."

"Yes. I'm a lucky man," his manager said, and ended up telling Russell a bit about his wife and how they'd met, and how her father had used to be the rudest man he knew but he'd mellowed out a bit since the news of the pregnancy and all. Russell had never really spoken to his manager before, had always thought he was nice enough but quite gruff, which put Russell on an awkward footing.

It was nice, though, seeing him talk about something that made him so happy. Some of it was a little boring, like hearing the list of potential baby names that he and his wife were arguing over, but Russell didn't have anywhere to be.

\---

An unexpected bonus of taking over the more managerial duties was getting a more defined work week. Russell usually had weekends off, now, and he liked being able to go out on Friday and Saturday nights without having to worry about working the next day.

Sundays, too, became a more defined thing. Much as he didn't like knowing that he had work the next morning, he did like a finish to the week, some sort of closure. Russell liked the little rhythms of life, the patterns of it. 

One Sunday morning he lay sprawled in his armchair, bare legs hooked over the side, pushing his toes through a beam of sunlight as though perhaps he could feel it. It was a warm day, perhaps the last warm day of the autumn, and he had his laptop open on his lap.

 _Tom was nice_ , he wrote. _I saw him at a club and he looked at me a bit but I wasn't sure and it wasn't a gay club and I was with Jamie's friend Roger so I didn't say anything, but then later he caught the same bus as me and he kept looking at me and smiling and I felt a little embarrassed but not too bad, probably because I was still drunk. After about fifteen minutes he came up to me and said "I passed my stop three blocks ago" and smiled and I thought that was cute and nice so I took him back to my place, and sucked him off in the hallway. And later I asked him about his parents, but I don't think he heard, and then after that I asked him if he wanted to fuck me, but he had already come and said he didn't think he could get hard again. The next morning he seemed kind of embarrassed but I didn't mind too much, because he made it like we had both shared a silly joke, and he didn't want to stay for breakfast but he did give me his number though I don't think I'll call him._

He wrote it nearly as fluently as he could write anything, and that made him frown a little. He scrolled up to just above it, where he'd written _Glen_ and nothing else. It looked stupid like that, like he'd written it in a big romantic gesture or something, which it wasn't, it was just that he wasn't sure what to say but he didn't want, later, to forget the order of people. Maybe even forgetting Glen's name was a possibility, one day, though he wasn't sure if maybe that wasn't too foolish. 

Normally he updated the document religiously and chronologically, but this one was taking too long; he was trying not to feel too strange about that. He'd come up with something sooner or later.

Now, he tried a little hesitant: _Glen was here for a weekend and then he went to America and now we are Facebook friends_ , and then made a face and deleted all of it but Glen's name.

Later it was, then.

That afternoon he went out to do some shopping with Jamie. It was nearly Cathy's birthday; Glen needed to get her something, and Jamie wanted to get her a bunch of little things, because they weren't doing so well financially at the moment.

"I'll get her something much better at Christmas," Jamie kept repeating, and looked desolate, and Russell patted shyly at Jamie's back. He wanted to tell Jamie that it was fine, that all of Jamie's friends agreed that Jamie was the best present giver there was and that Cathy loved Jamie endlessly, but he knew it wouldn't do much to make Jamie feel better.

Russell got Cathy a nice new set of plates with a little floral border and then, after a moment's hesitation, a lottery ticket. It reminded him of the birthdays he and Jamie had spent getting each other scratchie cards, and he hoped Jamie would have told Cathy about that; even if he hadn't, Russell thought that it would be a fun sort of gift anyway. He'd won a fiver in the lottery a couple of times now. It was always sort of exciting, like finding money in your pockets before you did laundry.

\---

The pool was nearly deserted on the first really cold day of autumn. It would pick up again, Russell knew; the pools were heated, and people were vigilant enough about exercise or finding something to do with their kids over winter break. That day, though, it was only the really dedicated swimmers, including a guy who Russell's coworkers laughed at.

"He pats his abs a lot in the changing room, doesn't he?" Scott said. "And he spends _ages_ in the showers. All casual like, and he doesn't look exactly, but you _know_ he's waiting for people to look at him. Fucking disgusting, you know."

"I heard there are entire _pools_ ," said George, "where it's all poofs, you know? They all go there to meet each other, like, and work out just so they can look _pretty_ and then nut off all over each other in the bathrooms afterward. A lot of fucking awful cologne and shit-smeared—"

"Well, why can't he go to one of those, then?" Scott said. "No need for him to come here. Catch him looking at me sometimes and it gives me a right shudder."

"Ooh, but you're looking back there, aren't you, Scottie?" George said, delighted. "Want to have a faggy little fling, do you? I bet you'd be a _great_ cocksucker—"

"Been thinking about that, have you then?" Scott asked, and the whole incident devolved into a little scuffle that almost knocked Russell's sandwich off the table and into his lap.

Anyway, that guy was there. Russell probably knew his name, if he paused to think about it, because he had a membership and all and sometimes Russell worked at the front desk if the receptionist was sick or something. Russell didn't think about it, though, so mostly he was just the guy who did fifty laps every day in the mornings and then wandered off to spend too long in the showers, apparently.

Sometimes he looked at Russell like he recognised him, maybe, and that always made Russell's heart pound and his stomach feel sick, but he never smiled or anything. Very possibly Russell had seen him in a club or a bar or something and just not recognized him out of the swimming gear.

He was quite fit, really, but Russell knew that if he ever did see him at a club, and recognise him in time, he would never go home with him. It would be terribly awkward, and Russell tried to avoid awkwardness, well aware of how bad he was himself at dealing with it.

That night, someone had commented on Glen's wall, asking if he'd made up his mind about coming to her wedding or not. _There'll be champagne_ , she'd written, _and then shots!_

Glen had responded: _damn, my weaknesses. Yes but I'm going to cover my ears and sing loudly during the ceremony._

 _Good,_ she answered, literally as Russell was looking. _I'd like Celine Dion, please._

The little green dot by Glen's name in the sidebar looked to be glowing. Russell rubbed his eyes, went to take a bath and wash the chlorine tiredness out from them.

He lay back with his head against the porcelain for a moment, sliding his hands up and down his arms. His bath wasn't that small; sometimes Russell thought about how nice it would be to have a man in here, someone whose hip he could poke at with his toes. He didn't even want to lie against someone; he liked the idea of them sitting at opposite ends, with their legs outstretched and overlapping, smiling at each other.

It wasn't really a thing you did with one night stands, though. Jamie asked Russell why he never seemed to want a boyfriend, and Russell shrugged because it was easier than explaining that he did, really, he just didn't know how. 

He didn't know how to meet men, he thought, or not for things like that. You didn't date the men you met in clubs, or at least Russell didn't know how. It was always too uncertain, how drunk the other person had been last night, what they were feeling now. Meeting someone sober for the first time after you'd slept with them was a discomforting experience, if not something that Russell would give up casual sex to avoid, and not the way you got a boyfriend. At most, you got a weekend.

Every now and then Russell watched a movie. People met and fell in love at coffee shops, or at work, or introduced by friends. 

Maybe Russell _should_ sleep with that man at the pool.

\---

At Cathy's birthday party, they ate Indian food and then sat around smoking.

"Don't mess with a good thing," Cathy said. "Especially when you're thirty-one. Oh god."

Everyone laughed, and cheered, and Jamie leaned over to kiss Cathy's neck. "My hot older woman," he said solemnly, which made everyone laugh more, and made Cathy pick up Jamie's knuckles and kiss them. Russell liked that gesture a lot, the strange chivalry of it, and it was probably the pot, too, but he felt all full up and lovely inside with how much he loved his friends.

He'd half-planned earlier to go to a club again after, but the itchy feeling had subsided and instead he ended up sprawled on the floor at three in the morning when everyone else had left, whispering secrets with Jamie and Cathy.

"That boy," Jamie said, insistent. "That boy of yours."

"You always talk about him," Russell said. "He's not mine. I haven't even spoken to him since."

"But he's the only you ever spoke _about_ ," Jamie said. "Did you love him?"

Russell slanted a shy glance at Cathy, but she was just smiling at him, her wrist curled around Jamie's ankle, thumb rubbing gently at the bone there through his sock. 

"No," Russell said. Then he admitted, because it was late and he was buzzed, "But I would have – liked the chance to, maybe."

"If he's broken your heart," Jamie insisted, drunk and maudlin, "I'll kill him. I'll go to America and kill him."

"Oooh, I'd like to go to America," Cathy said dreamily. "I've wanted to see the Statue of Liberty since I was a little girl." She paused. "And that fountain. The one they dance around in the credits of _Friends_. You know the one?"

"There we go," Russell said, laughing fuzzily. "That sounds like a perfect trip. Sightseeing and murder."

"Do you think I should get my hair cut like Jennifer Aniston?" Cathy said.

Russell fell asleep on the couch around four in the morning. Cathy and Jamie had staggered off to bed and he'd heard noises that made him presume they were having drunken but enthusiastic sex. It was nice, like being reassured that your parents were still happy and in love, though Russell had been told by a few people now that hearing your parents have sex was one of the worst experiences in the world. He supposed they must be right; he just always thought that it must be kind of nice, knowing people you loved still loved each other.

The next morning he got called in with a bit of an emergency to the pool; his manger's wife had gone into labour, which was wonderful, obviously, except for the bit that involved Russell hungover and exhausted trying to complete the payslips. His manager had taught him how to do it about a month ago now, and he'd done it twice with supervision. It wasn't even that hard, but numbers seemed suddenly difficult to manage, and he almost took thirty hours off his own.

At least that would have been a better and more believable mistake than putting an extra thirty hours on, Russell thought, and then painstakingly went over his slip, suddenly paranoid that he'd added it up wrong or done something so that it looked strange and dodgy.

He was getting bigger payslips than usual at the moment, anyway, what with the extra hours and raised wage. The guys had tried ribbing him about it in the lunchroom, obviously resentful, but Russell wasn't usually a very good target for teasing. He was good at just sort of smiling and ducking his head until they gave up. Being shy had its advantages, at times.

It was nice, though. Sometimes he thought about moving into a nicer flat, some place a bit bigger, but it wasn't like he had much stuff, and his flat was conveniently located, if a bit cramped and locked in with everyone else. It was nicer to use the money for other things – a new shirt now and then, or just savings. He'd be able to get everyone really lovely things for Christmas this year, which made him pretty happy.

He finished the payslips an hour later than his shift normally finished, and wasn't sure whether to mark that down as overtime or not. He'd probably have done it a bit quicker if he wasn't so hungover, but he _had_ stayed – he figured he'd mark the extra hour and see if anyone noticed it. When he rode his bike home, the traffic seemed louder than usual, even along the quieter bits, and he was sort of wincing when he got back, ignoring his phone ringing on the table in favour of taking some painkillers and a brief unplanned nap.

The phone was ringing again when he woke up, and he frowned and made himself some tea and toast and then went to see who'd been calling him. There were three missed calls from Jamie, and one from Cathy, and Russell's heart almost stopped – they'd been trying to get in contact with him for close to an hour and a half, and that insistently meant there was almost something sure to be wrong.

He called them back.

"Russell!" Jamie yelled. It was very loud in the background. Jamie thought he could hear Cathy _sobbing_ , maybe.

"Jamie," he said. "What's wrong? Is it Lois? She's okay, isn't she—"

"She's fine, everything's fine, it's wonderful," Jamie said. "You have to come over right away. I – call a cab. I'll cover it, you need to come over, we're having a party and you're the guest of honour."

Russell stared blankly at his wall, confused. "It's Sunday night, mate."

"Doesn't matter!" Jamie said, laughing. "Call in sick tomorrow! Everything is fucking wonderful, come over here, you fucker, or I'll tell you the news on the phone and that won't be half as exciting—"

"Tell me what news?"

Jamie said, "Only the lottery, Russell. Only your _fucking lottery ticket_."

\---

Somehow, Russell was told, the lottery ticket he'd given Cathy had not only been a winner, it had won them twenty thousand pounds.

He couldn't believe it. "It's not possible," he said. "Surely it's not possible, have you had it checked?"  
 "Twice! And we have a cheque!" Cathy was still torn between laughing and sobbing inconsolably, overwhelmed and beaming the whole time. "God, you beautiful boy. You wonderful piece of luck."

"I'm so happy for you," Russell said. "Truly, I didn't think it was that good a present, but—"

"Best present ever given," Jamie said, and kissed Russell's cheek loudly. "God, we can finally get Lois's room fixed up. And parts of the house, fuck, thank god. Put a chunk of it towards the mortgage—"

"You're missing the best part," Cathy said, sniffling. "Tell him the best part, Jamie."

"Oh, god, yes," Jamie said, and turned to Russell. "This is the best part: we're going to go to New York for Christmas this year."

"Oh," Russell said, smiling uncontrollably at them. His face almost hurt with it. "How wonderful. That will be lovely."

"It will be," Jamie said. "And you're coming with us."

Russell stopped. "I – what?"

"We're going to buy the tickets this week, all four of them," Cathy said. "Christmas in New York, Russell."

"No," Russell said. "No, guys, I couldn't possibly – you need that money—"

"It's so much money," Jamie said. "And you're the one who helped us get it, and we want you to come with us, we really, really do. It wouldn't be the same without you, Russ. We'll cover the cost of the plane ticket and then the hotel room—"

"No, no—"

" _Yes_ ," Cathy said firmly. "Russell, you're family. We want you there with us."

"We need someone to take photos of the three of us," Jamie said, and Russell smiled helplessly.

They argued about it for a long time, but Jamie and Cathy were firm and steadfast, said they'd buy his ticket no matter what and if he wanted that money to go to waste, well, that was fine. Eventually Russell compromised on paying for his own hotel room, told them he was sure he could manage that, what with the new job and all. He thought almost joyfully about his tiny flat, how very much he didn't care about upgrading now, with sudden gleaming prospects on the horizon.

"I could probably even manage my own ticket," he began, hesitant, trying to add up sums and how much he could save in the next two months if he really cut down on all the unnecessary expenses, but Jamie shook his head.

"Not negotiable," he reminded Russell, and Russell could feel himself almost blushing, rubbing his hands against his cheeks.

"This is too kind," he said, feeling the words to be as stilted and ridiculous as they were. He sounded old-fashioned and insincere, but he meant them, wanted to get back to the base root of the meaning. "You're being too kind."

"No," Cathy said. "That's you."

\---

As promised, they bought the tickets almost as soon as the cheque had come through and cleared. Russell felt suddenly pent up with excitement and possibilities, and realised how long it had been since he'd had anything to look forward to. It wasn't like his life wasn't nice – obviously it was, it was just that when exciting things happened they tended to be spontaneous and small, and he didn't really plan ahead that much at all. He'd been excited just about getting everyone nice presents for Christmas – this was something much, much better.

He'd still get everyone nice presents for Christmas, he thought, but they would have to be nice for the whole exotic international aspect, rather than costing that much. He was saving as much as he possibly could.

The most nervous he got about it was when he had to tell his manager that he needed two weeks leave in December around the Christmas period, but his manager said that that was fine, and that in fact he got paid leave now as part of his extra capacities, and he could use up some of that, if he wanted.

"You'll only have been permanent for three months by that point," his manager said, "but that'll be a little, and we can probably work it out so you can get some on advance from next year. It's easy to sort out compromises around the holidays, you know."

Russell felt shyly blessed, like he was having some patch of good luck which couldn't possibly last forever, but was really very nice indeed while it did last. He wondered if he should do other things he'd been too nervous to do before, but thought that was probably pushing his luck. He'd take things as they came.

Only once, feeling very foolish, did he look up Oregon on the map. It was a long way away from New York, of course. He always forgot how big America was. He looked up flights, but they were expensive at Christmas time and, of course, pointless.

Even Jamie hadn't raised the possibility of seeing Glen while they were in the same country, Jamie who was more romantic than anyone Glen knew. If Jamie recognised that a fling from four months ago wasn't something to travel cross-country for, then Russell should definitely feel the same way about it.

He did update Facebook, though, a little uncertain, conscious of how little he actually used it and how unsure he was how to speak about it. All the same, he typed into the little status box: _is excited about Christmas in NYC!_ and then stared anxiously at it for a while before posting.

A couple of people from various high schools that he'd been to liked it almost immediately, which was a bit of a relief. He closed his laptop and went to bed, and didn't think about it too much.

The next morning, though, he couldn't help noticing when Facebook's little notifications said: _Glen Weaver and 8 other people like this post._

\---

The two months went fast. Russell worked for a lot of it, took his extra shifts as they came and didn't go out as much on the weekends. He got to write up a few more people in his document, but mostly he tried not to go out too much. When he did go to bars it was, somewhat guiltily, where the more masculine end of the queer spectrum frequented, and Russell was more likely to get a free drink offered to him.

Then, abruptly, it was time to pack, and fill out the strange little questionnaire on the American government's website that somehow gave him clearance to travel there, and then repack, and then pack just once more to be sure. Jamie laughed at him, and told him that he should definitely dress more interestingly if he was going to fret this much about his clothes, and Russell just flushed and looked away and then went back to worrying over which sweaters to take.

Sometimes, unexpectedly, he thought of Glen, in moments like these, holding out an orange hoodie that really didn't suit him that well and thinking about the bright line of Glen's back heading down Russell's path as he left. It was kind of pathetic, Russell knew, that he still thought about Glen this often, but he couldn't help it. He jerked off and thought about Glen's weight over him, Glen's cock in him, and then he lay quiet in his bed and thought about Glen saying, _I couldn't be more proud of you_ , and the strange tenderness that had come crawling over Russell as Glen said that, as slow and steady as the morning light.

On Facebook, Glen was going through a phase of kissing a lot of men and making sure – or at least Russell was convinced that Glen was making sure – that he was tagged in all of the photos and that it was appearing as prominently on people's feeds as possible. Russell was glad he didn't have a smartphone; checking Facebook at work would, in all likelihood, be disastrous.

He had a computer, of course, that he used in the manager's office, but the walls of that office were all glass, and he was paranoid about his manager checking the browser history, anyway.

\---

_Simon was very chatty and wanted to chat during sex which was all right but a bit weird and sometimes I was embarrassed about the way my voice would sound. He asked me what I was doing for the holidays and I said that I was going to New York with my best friends, and he said that that was amazing and that I should be sure to go to the Met because it was brilliant, and while he was talking about New York I realised that Simon is probably quite rich and goes to America a lot and then I felt embarrassed because I was so obviously excited about New York, and maybe showing off a little too. But he didn't seem to notice. Then I asked him what he was doing for Christmas, and he told me he was Jewish, and laughed when I apologised for phrasing it like that, and told me that he was going to go spend Hannukah with his mother, because last year his dad had died, and his dad was very old, much older than his mother, and also his younger brother had been killed in a car crash only a few months ago. And I said that I was very, very sorry, and it was strange how he just sort of lay there for a while and then said that it was okay and asked whether he could suck my cock. He was good at that. He didn't stay the night._

\---

They got into New York late, around eleven o'clock, and went straight to the hotel. None of them had any sleep on the plane, because Lois was scared and sniveling for a lot of the way, though not outright crying. It actually turned out to be a good thing, though, because Russell was able to go to sleep straight away and woke up at nine the next morning feeling cheerful and well-adjusted. He thought he might escape jetlag altogether.

As it turned out, that was a bit presumptuous. The time difference wasn't that big, but New York was so big and different and strange, and Russell felt very conscious of that, and not so conscious of everything else. They had a pretty easy first day, just wandered around the city and then bought a picnic lunch at Wholefoods that they ate in Central Park, finding benches finally because the ground was too cold and damp to sit on.

It was very, very cold, but not really colder than England, exactly. Lois wandered around looking adorable in her puffy pink coat and matching boots, both new, and Russell wound his scarf up high around his neck and jammed his hat on firmly. He felt dazed and overcome but not in a terrible way, more like the first moments of a new drug that he didn't entirely understand.

They ate pizza in a hole in the wall joint for dinner, overwhelmed by how good 99 cent pizza could be, and then headed back along Lexington to the hotel. Jamie and Cathy were holding hands, leaning into each other, and Jamie and Russell were each holding one of Lois's hands; every now and then they said, "one, two, three!" and lifted her up swinging into the air, making her shriek with laughter and delight.

Walking four abreast was perhaps a little obnoxious, but the pavements here were wide and the city felt big enough to fit them.

Back at the hotel, Russell went into his own separate room – next door to Jamie and Cathy's, but not connected – and got out his laptop. He had an email from his manager wanting to confirm when he'd be back that he replied to, and then he opened up Facebook.  
 There was a new message blinking. It was from Glen.

 _hey so i was thinking_ , was all it said, and before Russell had time to puzzle over that, another one came through: _oh you're online hello._

Russell's heart was pounding. _Hello_ , he sent, not sure what else to do.

 _so are you really in new york then_ , Glen said. _if not nottingham has a very convincing impression of central park_

Russell was puzzled for a moment, before he looked at his other notifications and realised that Jamie had posted a photo of him and Lois at the park today, tagged him in it. Still feeling hesitant to the point of crippling shyness, he sent: _Yes, Central Park is lovely. Only been here a day but like it a lot. How are you finding the US?_

 _fine fine,_ Glen replied immediately, and Russell could _hear_ the impatient tone of his voice. _look. as it happens i'm going to be in new york in two days or so. will you still be here?_

Russell's breath caught. He bit his lip, shook his head, and said: _Yes. Here for two weeks._

 _good,_ Glen sent. _want to maybe get a drink for old times and all that terrible nonsense then?_

 _Yes_ , Russell sent, faster this time. _That would be lovely._

 _good_ was the response again. _i'll hit you up when i'm here then. go to this place for dinner tomorrow if you can it's wonderful, can't get anything like it in england_ , and then there was a link to a Yelp review page of a restaurant only a couple of blocks away from Russell's hotel.

 _Great, okay_ , Russell sent, but Glen had already gone offline. Russell hesitated a second, and then sent as a follow-up: _See you soon._

\---

He'd almost made up his mind not to tell Jamie at all, but then he suggested the restaurant Glen had told him about for dinner, and it was amazing, Mexican food that set Russell's mouth on fire and filled him as solidly as anything ever could.

Cathy said, "God, Russell, this is incredible, how on earth did you hear about this place?"

"A friend told me," Russell said, hesitant.

Jamie raised his eyebrows. "Have you made friends without us? That's a bit unfair."

"No, no," Russell said. He swallowed hard, then rubbed his chin awkwardly. "It was actually my friend Glen. That guy I was – sort of involved with. For just a little while."

He shot a terrified look at Lois and then at Cathy, but Cathy just seemed interested, and Lois went on eating her dinner unperturbed. 

"I didn't get the impression you two were still in contact," Jamie said, sounding impressed. "And isn't he in California or something?"

"Yes, in Oregon," Russell said. "I suppose he must have been to New York, at some point. And he's – we don't talk, not really, but he – he must have seen on the internet that I was here, and apparently he's going to be here in a few days, so we'll probably – get a drink and catch up or something."

Jamie whistled. "But Russell, that's great!"

"How lovely," Cathy agreed. "Why didn't you tell us, you sly thing?"

Russell shrugged. Jamie looked at him, kind of quiet and sad and understanding. 

"Will it be good, do you think?" Jamie asked. "Seeing him again?"

"I don't know, really," Russell said. "Maybe. We didn't know each other that well. He sounded like he was going to do a – a really interesting course at the school he's going to, though, so maybe it'll be – it'll be nice to hear how that went, anyway."

"Yes, of course," Jamie said. "And you'll get to – tie up some loose ends, maybe."

"I thought they were already tied up," Russell said.

"Maybe you can make them nicer," Jamie said.

Cathy laughed. "A pretty little bow."

"Rather than just knots," Jamie agreed, nodding, and Russell smiled sort of absently and looked away. 

They ordered dessert, and Jamie changed the subject, which Russell was grateful for. He felt strange and on edge, not sure whether to be nervous or excited or both.

\---

The next day, they roamed around Chinatown and a little bit of Brooklyn, and then had an early dinner and went back to the hotel. Russell opened up Facebook and found a message waiting from Glen, sent from Glen's phone: _i'm in new york now. fancy a drink?_

 _Yes, sure_ , Russell sent. _Where should I meet you?_

He didn't have to wait for a response long. _i can come meet you at your hotel if you want, save you getting lost. say an hour?_

Russell agreed, sending back the address, and then went to shower and shave a little, neatening himself up and spending too long deciding what to wear. He almost put on his hat, and then felt suddenly self-conscious that it was the same hat he'd worn all those months ago. It wasn't worn out or anything, but maybe Glen would be so different, four months spent living abroad all glamorous in California, and Russell in the same hat.

He went downstairs with his scarf instead, and his big winter coat on, and Glen was standing out the front steps, stamping his feet against the cold and wearing the same green hoodie Russell had seen him in all that time ago.

"Gosh," he said, without really meaning it to be the first thing he'd say, "aren't you cold?"

"Freezing," Glen said, shaking his head. "Let's go get me a vodka coat, shall we?"

"You can—"

"I'm _not_ taking yours," Glen said, and set off at a fast pace. "Come along, then."

"Maybe I wasn't going to offer," Russell said, feeling all fluttery and uncertain. He had been, of course, and the smirk Glen sent his way meant Glen knew that.

"Then you're a rude, rude man," Glen said. "The best bar closest to here is around the corner. Frightfully straight, but maybe if you're lucky I'll kiss you in the corner and we can cause a ruckus."

Russell almost choked on his tongue. Then he said faintly, "But Americans seem so nice," and Glen laughed loud and bright.

\---

Russell wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, really. Perhaps some awkwardness, or some acknowledgment of the things that had been said at the train station, or Glen quiet and confessional, talking with that crooked smile and the half-embarrassed expression that Russell had learned, very quickly, to associate with Glen's perception of his own vulnerability.

Really, that fantasy was the silliest. Glen had never been _quiet_.

Instead, Glen led Russell over to a corner booth, ordered Russell a beer and himself a complicated looking cocktail, and immediately started complaining about his life.

"They're just very loud, Americans," Glen said. "Which is fine, you know, I don't mind a bit of loudness—"

"Shocking," Russell murmured. Tellingly, Glen didn't hear him.

"—it's just that so often they're loud about pointless things," Glen said. "I just want people to make a bit of sense, you know? Don't talk for the sake of hearing yourself talk, it's _boring_ , I don't _care_."

"Don't you think that's buying into stereotypes a little bit?" Russell said. "Everyone I've met here is really nice, and they all ask me about myself, too. It's sweet."

"Well, you're a tourist," Glen said. "I go to art school."  
 "There's your problem, right there," Russell said. Glen stared at him for a moment, looking affronted, and then burst out laughing.

Russell smiled, slow.

"You've gotten right cocky," Glen said. "Get a boyfriend or something? Someone to tell you how _perfect_ you are all the time?"

"No," Russell said. "That wasn't very subtle."

Glen winked at him. "Who said I ever was?" He paused, then said, "God, though, that's the other thing. The _gays_ here. I mean, there's camp and then there's just tacky, you know?"

Russell sat back, sipping his beer, and tried not to stare too obviously at Glen's mouth.

\---

Eventually, they got kicked out of the bar, because Glen decided to narrate some poor couple's date, very loudly and rudely, and Glen grabbed Russell's wrist, stumbling against him a little, slipping slightly on the icy streets.

"You're such a lightweight," Russell said, cheeks pink with the cold. The alcohol had loosened his tongue enough that he didn't mind talking; it wasn't that he didn't know what to say to Glen, more that most of the time he was too wary of the very real possibility of being mocked for it. Right now, he didn't care. "I don't think I noticed before."

"Shocking, that you still have things to find out about me after we spent a whole _weekend_ together," Glen said, sneering.

"Well, we did spend most of that weekend quite drunk," Russell pointed out, fairly reasonably, he thought. "I think it's fair to assume I would have noticed."

"Oh, you're so _logical_ ," Glen said. "Want to go dancing?"

Russell laughed. "No, not at all."

"What do you want to do, then?" Glen said. He leaned in against Russell's side some more; for a moment, Russell thought Glen was falling, and put an arm around Glen's shoulders, squeezing him in close, but Glen used the motion to turn smoothly into Russell, backing Russell up against a brick wall, hand resting light on Russell's hip. They stared at each other for a moment.

"I want," Russell said, "to go have something more to drink, I think. And then to get some New York pizza."

"And then?"

Russell smiled, looked away.

"You're so coy," Glen said, and maybe it was the alcohol, or the way he sounded when he was talking under the sound of traffic and not shouting over the noise of a bar, but he sounded almost tender.

"I'm not," Russell said.

"Another beer," Glen said.

Russell shrugged.

"Two beers?"

"And the pizza."

"And the pizza," Glen said. They were smiling at each other now, up close and ridiculous, Russell dropping his head slightly so his forehead could rest against Glen's. He reached out, and took Glen's hand, and Glen took his other hand, their fingers looped loosely together. They swayed a little, like they were about to dance, even though Russell was very definitely not. It would take a lot more alcohol to talk him into that, and probably something else, besides.

Glen hummed something light and ridiculous under his breath, and Russell twirled him around, following himself awkwardly, ducking under their linked hands. It was Christmas in New York City, and snowing; Russell wanted to laugh at himself, a little, but he was happy, too.

This wasn't Glen, he knew, wasn't any of the things Glen would normally like or be willing to do, but perhaps Glen, too, sensed the moment, sensed the atmosphere, was willing to let things hang suspended and take advantage of the strange place, the strange time.

"All right, then," Glen said, letting go of one of Russell's hands. The other one he kept a tight hold of; logical, Russell thought, as they both appeared to have lost their gloves. "Come on. Two beers. One pizza."

"That sounds like truly awful pornography."

"You've developed a smart tongue on you, sir," Glen said, mock-stern. "I'm not sure if I like it."

Russell didn't make the obvious joke, because he knew it and Glen knew it. They grinned at each other, and Russell felt _young_ , like a schoolboy, like he was playing pranks with Jamie and both of them knew that they were going to get away with it. 

"Are you going to buy me the drinks?" he asked, instead of anything else.

"I'm but a poor student!" Glen protested.

"I'm the visitor," Russell said, rather than pointing out that he was fairly sure Glen had a lot more money than him, if Glen could afford to up and run to America to study. Both of them knew that, there was no sense in adding more to the strange balances of things between them.

"That's true," Glen said, after a moment. "And I am a gentleman. Well, come along then, and we'll see what I can do."

\---

Russell already knew what Glen could do. He wasn't the type to hold back, not even on a first time, and falling back into bed with him made him confident of that. Glen still kissed the same, fierce and a little pushy, and he fucked Russell the same, too, sharp, needy little thrusts, his face twisting strangely.

Glen whined, and Russell pressed his knees up against Glen's hips. He was breathing deep and slow, hands flung up above his head, scraping his fingers uselessly against the sheets when he felt like he just needed to touch something, fingertips itching, and didn't quite dare touch Glen.

Russell was getting close when Glen started laughing, rough and breathless, with an edge to it. This time, Russell reached up and curled his fingers through Glen's hair, liking the way Glen turned his face immediately and nuzzled in against Russell's palm.

"What?" Russell said, breath hitching. "What is it?"

"It's just—" Glen broke off to groan, fingers digging into the soft skin above Russell's hips. Russell might have bruises there tomorrow, he thought dazedly; that'd be nice. "It's just I thought of something _you_ would say."

"What?" Russell wanted to know. He tugged at Glen's hair, could feel himself getting close now. He couldn't usually come with someone fucking him, it was too much, too intense, but he didn't envision himself lasting long after Glen finished.

"It's just," Glen said again, as Russell stared up at him, "it's just that you're so lovely."

\---

"I meant, you know, you're handsome and all," Glen said.

"I really don't think you're meant to smoke in here," Russell said nervously.

Glen leaned further out the window. That was half the problem, really, the window open and the freezing cold. Russell had huddled down under the blankets; he wasn't sure how Glen could bear to stand there, nipples hard and arse bare to New York winter. He couldn't help noticing, though, that Glen's dick was still very nice. Russell liked it a lot.

"They're not even – they're clove cigarettes—"

"I don't think they care," Russell said, even as he thought, _how old are you, seventeen?_ "And you know they still have tobacco in them, don't you?"

"Oh, thank you, mother," Glen said, and then snuck a naughty look at Russell over his shoulder. "Sorry."

Russell rolled his eyes. "That's okay," he said. "Lovely's an odd word for handsome."

"I knew, I knew you'd noticed that!" 

Glen rounded on him, dropping the cigarette out the window, to Russell's relief, though apparently not taking the next step to _close_ the damn window. Glen never listened to a word Russell said, Russell thought desperately; he would be hopeless, absolutely hopeless to live with. Then Russell stopped thinking about that very fast. Honestly, after a _weekend_. (Plus one.)

"What," Russell said, innocent.

"Don't _what_ me." Glen climbed back onto the bed, straddling Russell over the blankets. He poked accusingly at Russell's chest. "You're being all smug! Because I get chatty during sex!"

"Am not," Russell said.

"We can't _all_ lie there being solemn and broody and – and—"

"Lovely?" Russell suggested, and rolled over laughing when Glen made an outraged noise and went for him. Glen stripped the blankets back and Russell yelped, "No, no, it's cold!"

"Well, now you have to feel my wrath," Glen said, and tackled Russell around the middle, biting down hard on his shoulder. Russell wriggled around, trying to defend himself, uselessly shoving at Glen until he got the idea to put Glen in a headlock; Glen howled, feet scrambling for purchase against the sheets, tried to stand up and half-choked himself in the effort, then fell down so heavily on Russell that, with a well-placed elbow, he managed to wind Russell into letting him go.

"No, no," Russell said, laughing, as Glen took up the attack again by biting at Russell's neck, his shoulder. They squirmed all over the bed, rolling each other over, panting and laughing, until Glen had Russell pinned underneath him, a warning knee hovering above Russell's bollocks.

"Don't make me," he said. "I'm very fond of them."

"Oh, god," Russell said. He couldn't stop laughing, or smiling; the buzz of the alcohol had worn off, and he had a vague thought that he should drink some water or Gatorade or something soon for fear of starting to sober up _while_ Glen was here, in a way that would probably involve a hangover and some retching or something.

He wasn't really paying attention to that, though. He wasn't paying much attention to anything beyond Glen hovering above him, the beating of his own heart, the recognition that this time he had really, truly gone and fucked himself up nice and proper. He'd care about that later, he was sure, so there was no point in caring too much about it now.

"Tell me I'm the winner," Glen said.

"You're the winner," Russell said, and shifted his head slightly on the pillow.

Glen leaned down and kissed him. "It's no good hearing it from you," he murmured, between kisses. "You're so obliging, I'm not at all convinced you mean it."

After a moment, Russell sighed, and Glen backed off. "It's fucking cold here," he said, and when Russell nodded, he jumped up and closed the window, making a pointed tutting noise that Russell thought was aimed at him. Like it had somehow been Russell's fault that the window was open.

Russell rolled off the bed, and went into the little bathroom, poured himself a glass of water from the tap in the sink. The water in New York tasted strange; a little unpleasant, but mostly just different.

"Do you want some water?" he called.

"I'll share yours," Glen said, from closer than Russell had expected. Russell turned around, and Glen smiled at him, and when Glen put an arm around Russell's waist and looked at him, both of them turned their heads to watch their reflections in the mirror.

\---

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Glen said.

Glen had stayed the night, of course. That had been lovely, because Russell hadn't had the chance to realise properly in the easy warmth of a Nottingham summer that Glen was like a human hot water bottle, and he didn't seem to mind at all Russell wrapping himself around Glen to keep warm.

They'd slept pretty soundly, Russell thought, or hoped. He hadn't woken to Glen stirring, anyway; he _had_ woken to Glen leaning over him and dripping and saying, "The water pressure in your shower is _amazing_ ," as though Russell hadn't already tried it.

Now, Russell said, "I mean, it's fine."

"Is it?"

"Yes!"

"You said you were out, you said he knew—"

"I wasn't lying," Russell said. "He and Cathy both know."  
 "Never taken a boy home, though?" 

Glen looked smug and knowing, and for a moment Russell really hated him, hated him for how cowardly he made Russell feel and how damn lordly he could be. He wanted to throw all the things that Glen was terrible at in Glen's face, but – Glen wasn't as _obviously_ terrible at some things as Russell was. Russell always had the terrible suspicion that what he saw as a grave flaw in Glen's character could have been an act Glen was putting on for a lark, and Glen would be able to laugh and say that that wasn't who he was at all, of course, and how stupid Russell had been for falling for it.

He drew in a breath and said, somewhat coldly, "Not exactly taking you home though, am I?"

"Sorry about that?"

"No," Russell said. "I'm on holiday. I'm going to go shower."

"What's that mean?" Glen yelled after him. "Am I your _holiday fling_ , Russell? I'd be proud of you if I thought you meant it!"

Russell stayed in the shower for a long while; he was surprised, when he came out, to find Glen was still there, lying back on his bed and mucking about on his phone.

"I'm tagging you on Facebook," Glen said.

"In what?" Russell said, suddenly paranoid about the possibility of Glen having – secret naked pictures or something. Maybe he'd moved on from talking about sex to actual secret sex tapes or something equally terrifying.

Glen gave him an arch look that made Russell all too sure that Glen knew exactly what he was thinking.

"In a location," Glen said. "Here. Having breakfast with me."

Russell paused. Then he said, "And Jamie and Cathy."

Glen didn't look up from his phone. He did smile, though, and said, "Well, I don't have them on Facebook, so."

\---

Jamie and Cathy, Russell decided, were going to need a stern talking to; he wasn't ready for the way they were staring at Glen, this wide-eyed, delighted, dopey looking grin of Jamie's, the frank curiousity of Cathy's regard. Russell wanted to die. It was all too obvious just how much he'd told them about Glen.

Glen, on the other hand, was clearly eating the attention up. He applied various spreads to his croissant while gesturing grandly with his other hand, telling funny, mean stories about his classes and the kids there, and he didn't pull any punches when it came to the gay stuff either, describing a friend Evan as "one of those fussy little queers who'dve known it since shitting _kindergarten_ , you know, and still get all sniffy and delicate about manners—"

Russell had stared at Jamie and Cathy carefully during that, but while Jamie laughed a little too loudly and Cathy flushed slightly, it wasn't that bad. Neither of them looked disgusted, or upset, or anything horrifying like that, just slightly unsure whether they were allowed to laugh at the joke or not.

"Don't you miss England?" Cathy asked finally, and Russell tensed. What surprised him was that he could feel Glen doing the same thing next to him, sitting up a little straighter, getting that funny little smirk that actually meant he was unsure.

"Not sure if there's much to miss," he said. "Well, I mean, the food. For hangovers, I mean, can't beat it. The bar scene, a bit, America's much classier and I'm not sure I like it."

"What about your friends?" Jamie asked.

"I make friends pretty easily," Glen said, with a shrug. "I'd gone off all my old ones."

"Are you still in touch with Jill?" Russell asked, a little tentative.  
 Glen smiled ruefully. "Yes, of course. Old girl'd never let me go. She needs me too much, you know, I'm the shoulder she cries on. Poor old thing's so comfortable in her life as a fag hag—"

"You should be a little bit nicer," Russell said, while Jamie darted a quick look at Lois to make sure that she hadn't caught that particular term. Luckily, she was too occupied in her pancakes and the colouring sheet the restaurant staff had given her.

Glen leveled an accusing look at him. " _You_ didn't like her."

"Well, not much, no," Russell admitted, ducking his head. "But she's not my best friend."

Glen went quiet at that, while Jamie and Cathy looked a little uncomfortable, and Russell ate his eggs. He felt kind of confident that that had been an okay thing to say, that Glen's silence wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Under the table, he linked his ankle around Glen's, and Glen darted a look at him, unreadable but not unpleasant.

"What are you lot going to do today, then?" Glen asked them all, and Jamie shot a look at Russell.

Russell smiled sort of apologetically at Jamie. He felt bad, he did, because Jamie had bought him the ticket but – Jamie and Cathy probably wanted to spend some time together, them and Lois, as a family, and that was fine. They had two weeks. Russell would have plenty of time to hang out with them.

And it was worth it to see the delighted, cocky surprise on Glen's face when Russell said casually, "Rather thought I'd spend it with you."

"Oh, yes?"

"Thought you could drag me around an art museum or something," Russell said. "Be all knowledgeable."

Glen said, "It's true that I am quite a genius."

\---

They went to the Met.

"It's a cliché for a reason," Glen said. "Come on, let's go look at the best bit."

The best bit was, apparently, the reconstructions of hotel rooms and bedrooms from the 18th Century and such. Russell was a little nervous, unsure how to properly appreciate them, but Glen just folded his arms, leaning against the wall, and said, "I'd like the bed. What'll you have?"

"Uhm," Russell said. "What?"

"You have to pick something."

"I don't think we can afford them."  
 Glen laughed, delighted. "Go on!"

"I like that screen thing," Russell offered, and Glen nodded; it was, apparently, an acceptable choice, and they made their way through the rooms, picking and choosing the best bits of each display. It was a little ridiculous, but also it didn't make Russell feel as stupid as he'd feared, going to an art gallery with Glen.

"When I'm rich and famous," Glen said, without even the amused self-consciousness most people might have in saying such a thing, "I'm going to go to all those – antique auctions and things and outfit a bedroom just like this."

"Just your bedroom?"

"Yes! And the rest will be perfectly normal." Glen laughed, too loud even in the crowded museum. "That'll be good, won't it? Anyone walking in'd get a right shock."

"Yes, very clever," Russell said. "Go stand in front of it, then."

Glen did, a little uncertainly, and Russell got out his crappy digital camera and took a photo of Glen, his back to the chandelier. It looked blurry and red but in an interesting sort of way, and Russell didn't want to take another photo. He tucked the camera back in his wallet.

"What's that for?" Glen asked.

"People do it, don't they?" Russell said, reasonably as he could. "Take photos when they're on holiday. I'm – commemorating things."

"Hmm," Glen said. "Do you want to see the Egyptian Wing?"

Russell shrugged. "If you like."

"Or," Glen said, "we could go get coffee."

Russell laughed. "That'd be all right," he said, and Glen rolled his eyes at Russell, but Russell was fairly sure that he wanted to leave, too.

"Do you want to get coffee in Central Park?" Glen asked. "Keep on with your touristy nonsense?"

"You're not an American either," Russell pointed out. "You're not even living in New York. You're kind of a tourist right now, aren't you? Why are you even in town?"

Glen laughed and shook his head. "Fine, fine, snappy," he said. "Let's get coffee in Central Park."

Russell stared at Glen, kind of frustrated and overwhelmed. He thought about taking Glen's hand, but decided against it.

\---

They got their coffees, and wandered around Central Park for a while until Glen said decisively, "Right, this is too depressing, let's go to Brooklyn." Then it was a while of getting lost, wandering around the subways while Glen tried to pretend he knew what he was doing, before they finally ended up on Bedford Avenue.

"We'll just wander aimlessly for a bit, and then go find a bar where people are dancing," Glen said. 

"Dancing?"

"Just because it'll be the right mood," Glen said, laughing. "Don't worry, I'm not forcing you into anything."

Russell liked Brooklyn, as it turned out. It was less expensive than he'd thought, and he bought a plaid shirt off someone on the street who'd just hung their clothes on an iron link fence, while Glen hung back, thumbs hooked in his beltloops, rocking back and forth a bit. He found a cute little windup toy for Lois, too, and Glen bought a couple of wooden bead bracelets, and a necklace. He used the necklace as a bracelet too, though, looping it around his wrist a couple of times.

"So do you like your school?" he asked finally. "Truly?"

"Yes," Glen said. He was quiet for a while, sauntering along. "But I guess it's not – I thought I'd be able to make myself a whole new person here. And it wasn't as easy as that."

"Who'd have thought," Russell said, light.

"You've gotten all cocky from somewhere," Glen said, laughing. "I can't decide whether it suits you or not."

Russell shrugged.

"I don't know," Glen said. "You just want a bit of familiar, don't you? It's pathetic but you start thinking about how nice it'd be if someone knew you were the type of person who liked your tea a particular way and then made it for you. Not romantic, you know, just like – an automatic sort of thing to do."

"I know," Russell said quietly.

"It's all a bit odd, that's all," Glen said, and rubbed his face with his hands. "So you start compromising, start making yourself easier to know. You get yourself – shorthand for your personality, you know? Whole things about yourself ground down into _quirks_ just so that it's easier for people to recognise and know them. And then nobody fucking drinks tea anyway."

"I'm sorry," Russell said.

"I am happy," Glen said. "I like this place. I just always thought I'd stay on after I finish my course and now I think – maybe not."

Russell's breath caught, though it had no right to. "Will you come back to Nottingham?" he asked.

Glen said, "Oh, god," and then got distracted by a mural, a little too obviously.

They stopped for a late lunch or early dinner or something, and argued furiously over the point of monogamy in the café, Glen's voice rising and rising while Russell looked around nervously.

"Don't," he said, "don't—"

Glen looked furious. "You don't!" he said. "God, what is it, gays only welcome during grand gestures, is that it?"

"Glen—"

"Fuck it," Glen said. "No, god, fuck it. Okay. I'm shutting up." He looked somehow _sad_ , and Russell wanted to tell him that that wasn't what he'd meant at all, but instead he ate the rest of his meal in silence. Glen didn't talk either, and it was awful, but there wasn't anything to do about it. Russell remembered all of the things he hated about Glen, how he shouldn't have such a neat list in his head for someone he hadn't known that long.

The bill made them talk, if only to work out how much each of them owed and how to best calculate the tip – Glen, despite having been in the US four months already, hadn't appeared to work out proper procedure yet.

Then Glen said, "Did you ever write me up?"

"What?"

"In that Word doc of yours."

"Oh," Russell said. He rubbed at his face, somewhat awkward. "No. Sorry."

Glen didn't say anything, but he looked satisfied.

"Right," Russell said, and they headed back onto the street. It was quite dark already, even though it was only half five, and Russell felt like they were lingering uncertainly in the spaces of things, not sure where to go or what to do.

Then Glen grabbed his arm and said, "Oh, come on."

"What?" Russell said, but Glen was already dragging him into a photobooth, apparently no explanation necessarily. He fumbled around in his pocket and finally unearthed a truly ridiculous amount of quarters, started feeding them into the machine. Russell sighed. "Really?"

"You were the one who were talking about fashioning holiday memories," Glen said, going up on his tiptoes to throw an arm around Russell's shoulders, and then pulling a truly horrifying face. "Let's do it, then."

Russell smiled a little awkwardly at the first flash.

"That was _terrible_ ," Glen said. He licked Russell's ear, which made Russell start laughing in time for the second; the third was both of them pulling faces, though Russell was awkwardly sure that he wasn't as good at it as Glen.

He wasn't surprised that Glen kissed him for the fourth – it was a formula, after all, and Glen had made it mockingly clear that they were following a formula – but he was surprised about where. Glen just rocked up on his tiptoes again and pressed his lips chaste and sweet against Russell's cheek, with his eyes closed.

When the photos developed, Russell could see his own uncertainty in the last one, and Glen picked it up, flourished it in Russell's face.

"There we go," he said. "Do you want it?"

 _Yes._ "If you don't," Russell said.

"Hmm," Glen said, and then tucked it away in his shirt pocket, buttoning it again once it was secure. "Tell you what, I'll keep it safe while I make up my mind."

Russell frowned, not sure if Glen was just denying him what he wanted for the sheer childish pleasure of doing so, but didn't protest out loud. Glen still had an uncertain expression on his face, so.

"And now," Glen declared, "drinks!"

"It's barely six."

"It'll take us a while to find a bar," Glen said. "And it's Friday night. They'll get crowded early."

\---

Glen was right, in the end; it took them a good hour and a half to find an appropriate bar, get settled, and get drinks, and by then Russell was well and truly ready for one. It was just that Glen made him feel so _fraught_ , and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to handle, after all, another weekend. Not another one like this.

He leaned against the little table they'd snagged, and watched Glen weave his way back through the crowd, the people dancing, to put a truly terrifying stack of shots down in front of him.

"Here we go!" Glen shouted. "Ready for a good night?"

"Not by your definition, apparently," Russell said, but he was smiling, couldn't help it, and he lifted the first shot glass to clink with Glen's readily enough.

It burned going down, which Russell had always rather liked, but especially during the New York winter.

"How long are you here for?" he yelled, that first drink making him brave, and Glen shrugged, smile crooked again.

"A while," he said.

They drank a lot, again; it seemed to be a pretty common factor when they got together. Russell didn't mind; he wondered how easy it was to find something else in New York, he wondered whether Glen maybe had some. It seemed like a possibility, and they had both shuffled around the little round table, were leaning against each other.

It was easier to converse, Glen had told Russell, smirking, and Russell had laughed long and pleased.

Glen said, "No, no, you're not listening—"

"I am! You can't just miss the – the idea of something, you have to miss certain things, you know? It was real to you. You can't make something a fairytale _after_ you've lived there."

"Course you can," Glen said. "That's the whole point of nostalgia, isn't it? You've just got to – to reinvent the things in your life, make them perfect, take out the annoying or uncomfortable bits, and then—"

"Tell me something you miss," Russell insisted.

"I rather miss your flat," Glen said.

Russell stared at him.

"I liked threatening the troubled youths out the window," Glen said dreamily.

"Don't be a dick," Russell said. "Tell me something you really miss."

"I wasn't," Glen said. "But all right, I – the bar on Whiting Street."  
 "Oh, yes. I'd miss that, too."

"My project."

"You're not doing that anymore?"

"Americans take to it too well," Glen said. "It's alarming."

"Doesn't that negate your point, then? That nobody wants to hear about gay sex?"

"No, it means I sleep with too many show offs," Glen said. "I miss the rain, a bit. The east coast is better that way."

"Mm," Russell said. "I like rain when I'm in my bed. Not so much otherwise."

Glen barked a laugh. "That's a pretty thorough assessment," he said. Then he took another shot. There was a strange remix of a Proclaimers song playing; the Scottish accent somehow helped Russell feel a little calmer, a little more certain in the situation. He was watching Glen very closely, their heads bent together. He wondered what they looked like to other people, but didn’t move. Glen said, "Ask me again."

"What you miss?"

"No, no," Glen said. "Ask me why I'm here."

"You said you liked this bar!" Glen had been very fussy about the first three they went to.

"Russell," Glen said.

Russell looked away and smiled. Then he said, "Why are you in New York?"

"I came here because I saw you were going to be here. I drove up from Oregon."

Russell's breath caught. "Oregon's a long way away. I looked it up."

"Yes," Glen said. "A very long way away."

Russell stared at Glen's face, tipped up to him, solemn and bright-eyed.

"Now you'll dance with me," Glen said.

"Now I'll dance with you," Russell agreed.

\---

Russell kept his hands on Glen's hips, and let Glen guide the pace. It wasn't so much dancing as grinding, but Russell didn't mind; he didn't even mind when Glen reached up and dragged him down for a kiss. It felt right, exhausting and good, and Glen was all squirmy and warm against him, and Russell thought that they weren't going to last long at this bar, either, never mind that it was much better than the first three.

Glen broke away about then and said, "Want to get a cab?" and Russell laughed. Glen frowned. "What? What?"

"I just won a bet with myself," Russell said.

"I hope the reward was sucking me off," Glen said, and dragged Russell out by the hand. In the back of the taxi, he brought Russell's hands up to his mouth and kissed almost frantically at his palms, and then gave up on that and just crawled into Russell's lap, kissing him fiercely.

"Hey!" the taxi driver said. "Hey, none of that!

Glen reared back, furious. "What?" he said. "Does it offend your sensibilities? Would you tell a straight couple that?"

"I'm not in the mood to argue with you, kid," the driver said. "Holiday traffic is a fucking pain in my ass and I don't need another one. Keep it clean."

Glen looked like he was going to argue some more, so Russell reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling Glen back in against him in a warm, tight hug, Glen's face pressed against his neck. It was nice to have a solid, quiet moment, anyway, so that the world could stop spinning for just a little bit.

They made it to Russell's hotel room, somehow, and then Glen practically climbed Russell as soon as they got in the door, yanking at his shirt. Russell had never been very good at the passionate, desperate sort of sex; he liked to take his time, or when the guy laughed or something, though he was usually too self-conscious to laugh himself.

Tonight, though, he felt like he understood urgency a little better, at least with the way Glen was rubbing up against him like taking their clothes off was a waste of energy, and not taking their clothes off was a sin against the very state of the world or something. Russell caught Glen's jittery hands in his and squeezed, and then he went down on his knees, unbuttoned Glen's trousers, and got his mouth around Glen's dick.

Glen gasped. His hands went into Russell's hair.

Russell had admired Glen's dick before and he liked it even more now, hot and heavy on his tongue, the taste and smell of it. He let his mouth stretch around Glen, sliding down, hand working where he couldn't reach. Glen's hips were jerking forward in stuttery little thrusts, not enough to actually hurt or choke Russell, just enough that Russell could tell how into it Glen was. He rather liked that.

"Russell," Glen said, and sounded almost wounded. His legs were trembling a little, and Russell stroked his free hand soothingly up the back of Glen's thigh.

Glen moaned. 

" _Russell_ ," he said, panting. "God, you've got such a – a lovely – cocksucking mouth—"

Russell pulled off, frowned up at Glen. "That's not very nice," he said.

"I said lovely, didn't I!"

Russell was still laughing a little when he finished Glen off.

\---

The bed was very warm. Glen lay on his back, arms outstretched, and Russell was on his side, lying on one of Glen's arms, chin bumping against Glen's shoulder, one hand spread flat on Glen's stomach. It was interesting, just feeling the rise and fall of Glen's breath.

"What date do you leave?" Glen asked.

"The third."

"So you've got New Year's here."

"Yes," Russell said. "Do you have plans?"

Glen sent him a quick, amused look. "I'm not going to say it again."

"You could, though," Russell said. He kissed Glen's shoulder. "It was lovely."

"Doesn't matter, though, does it," Glen said. "What, a bit over a week and then we're off in different countries again?"

Russell lay still and calm, nosing slightly at Glen's skin. He liked how Glen smelled. He liked just about everything about Glen, including that ridiculous list he had of all the things about Glen he hated. Glen sounded very sure of himself, and not in the fake, poseur way he got sometimes that was number three on the list. Russell was very confident of Glen, felt kind of helplessly sweet and sure around him. He wasn't sure – there weren't that many romantic comedies about two men that he could compare notes with – but he suspected that this was what falling in love felt like.

"Go on, then," Russell said. "Tell me the plan."

Glen sighed heavily. "Well," he said heavily, "first of all, you can't blame me. I'm used to declaring myself to you after forty-eight hours, and American airports are _rubbish_ for grand gestures. They take security so seriously, you know, I would have made a right fool of myself running after you."

"Plus it would have been copying."

"Exactly. No point falling into habits this early in the game," Glen said, and Russell wanted to die with how happy he felt, just for a moment.

"So," Russell said.

" _So_ ," Glen agreed, "a bit over a week and then different countries again, what a terrible and tragic place this world is." He put on a bit of a funny voice, camping it up, but Russell nodded, serious, and Glen looked at him for a long moment, trailed his fingers down Russell's cheek, lingering. "I don't do long distance."  
 "All right," Russell said.

"But," Glen said, quiet, "I know it seems – seems difficult to believe, what with the snow and all, but summer is… not that far away. And I'm not sure I'd want to hang around in Oregon for it. And – you'd have to get rid of that awful instant coffee stuff."

Russell hugged Glen tighter to him, tugging him around so the burning length of Glen's spine was pressed up against Russell's stomach, the blankets hoisted up high over both of them.

"It's not hard to believe at all," he said.


End file.
